Pity the Aristocracy
by TehAwesomeMae
Summary: Young Francis has a lovely mansion, plenty of servants, and lots of "friends," yet happiness eludes him. Could a pair of strays change his view of life?
1. Puppies and Nannies

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, sadly (or there would be many more canon pairings ~)**

**Enjoy!**

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_How unusual._

Even the voice in his head strictly maintained a politely disinterested tone.

_The gardeners don't typically let strays in._

Francis picked up the small, dirty puppy that was wagging its tail in defiance of the clean, sterile order of the garden.

"Bonjour."

A ridiculous impulse. Dogs don't understand speech. He was about to put it down and wash his hands when the little thing licked him.

_The nerve! How dare it slobber all over him!_

Yet though his tutor would have flung it away with a cry of _'Filthy animal!', _Francis found the gesture oddly endearing. He hadn't expected its tongue to be so warm.

"You are in desperate need of a bath," he strictly scolded it, suppressing the pompous voice that scolded him for talking to the animal again. It might be amusing to shelter this mutt. If nothing else, it would at least break the monotony of lessons, and maybe cause some of the servants to lose their cool.

When he was younger, his parents had hired nannies to watch him while they were away on their constant business trips. He used to like them. He remembered one in particular, a tall, blonde young woman with the prettiest smile. Emilie, or maybe Aimée, he couldn't quite remember (there had been so many after). She always called him _mon ange _and brought him toys and treats. Every time she talked to him, she was smiling. They had great fun for a few weeks, playing games, drawing, learning to read. But then, at times, Francis had seen her staring out a window darkly, smoking a certain brand of long, foul-smelling cigarettes he grew to hate.

One day, he decided to cheer her up with a pretty white and red lily he picked from the garden. He ran up to her as she was brooding and surprised her with a hug. She turned on him with a terrible scowl. Slightly taken aback, he said with a shaky voice,

"Look Emilie," (yes, it was Emilie, now he remembered) "I picked you a flower!"

The scowl quickly turned into a smile that looked almost painted onto the previously frowning face. She took the flower and ruffled the boy's hair.

"Merci, Francis."

Later that day, as he was playing in the garden, he passed by a brutally crushed red and white lily thrown on the side of the garden path, but paid it no mind.

A few days later, as they were playing outside, Francis asked Emilie what was making her sad. She had paused for a moment, then crouched to his level with a big smile on her face and said she was having a bit of trouble with her boyfriend. Francis pondered the subject a moment, then announced his decision,

"Your boyfriend is a meanie. You should leave him and be my girlfriend instead." He nodded resolutely, "I'd be very nice to you, always!"

He had been serious, too. He had loved her, and even thought she felt the same, until That day.

That day, Francis was sneaking down to the kitchen to "liberate" an extra pastry after lunch when he saw Emilie talking to – no, ranting at – one of the maids. Emilie always said eavesdropping was bad, but Francis never quite understood why. He had always found it a perfectly good way of finding things out. He crept closer, listening carefully. It sounded like she was talking about her meanie boyfriend. Maybe if he could find out what's so bad about him, he could help Emilie, and then be a better boyfriend for her!

"I cannot _stand _him anymore, Marie! You can't understand what it's like having to deal with such an entitled, stuck-up, and demanding _brat_ every day! If it weren't for the money, I would have left ages ago."

He sounded terrible. Francis made a mental note to write to his Maman to pay Emilie more so she could leave him without worrying about money.

"The atmosphere of the house is oppressive: so many people inside, but if feels empty, abandoned. You can just feel the hatred and regrets oozing out of the walls, casting misery on everyone inside"

How awful! He'd have to ask his parents to give her a room in the house so she didn't have to go back to a place like that every night.

"And every day, he acts like he's so much better than me, so much smarter, just because his family's richer than mine. It's like with every word he says, every gesture he makes, he's reminding me that he'll always live his pampered life in a big house, while the best I'll ever reach is a _servant_, a worthless, replaceable girl paid to smile and play with the little shit because his parents don't care enough to ever come home. I swear, one more week and I'm leaving this goddamn job and this awful child, to hell with the money!"

Francis stood very still for a moment, processing. That couldn't be right. Emilie loved him like a brother, she had said so, once. If he ran out there now, she would smile her bright smile and hug him like she always did, right? He must have misunderstood. Of course. Everyone always smiled at him, said he was so sweet and smart and handsome ("Spitting image of your father!"). Everyone liked him, most of all Emilie, right? Of course. _Paid to smile… _No. He walked out of his hiding place and marched up to Emilie. She turned at the sound of his footsteps in the hallway.

"Emilie, you love me, right?"

He imitated the tone he had once heard one of his father's friends use, trying to sound grown-up and serious in order to cover up his worry about the response. His back was clenched straight and his hands balled up in his pockets in order to suppress the small, traitorous trembles that were aching to turn into full-blown sobs.

Emilie had almost made an effort to smile when she first saw it was Francis, but at the question, she froze with the unnatural half-scowl still marring her pretty face. Then she started laughing, a hard and bitter laugh quite unlike the one Francis had heard before.

"Love you? Hardly. In fact, that question embodies everything I _despise _about you. Your imperative tone, nosey questions, presumptuous attitude, and smug little expression make me want to kick you down, just to see your clothes dirty, your conceited smile bent into a howl of pain and shame. If your parents ever come back, tell them I quit. Though if I were them, I would stay away forever."

She marched off, head held high, with a smile much brighter, but also much crueler than Francis had ever seen on her before. He slowly turned and walked to his room, found a small teddy bear Emilie had brought him weeks ago, cured up around it, and cried late into the night.

He had never seen her again. The next day he was left alone, with the servants quickly cutting off whispered conversations as he passed them by. The day after, there was a new woman, with a new smile, new toys, new candies, but Francis would not be fooled again. No matter how sweet they may be, he now knew they all hated and envied him, so he hated them back. He began to delight in torturing them, administering many small cruelties that drove some to cry, others to yell, and all to leave.

When he was eight, the two-faced nannies were replaced by somber tutors that did not even pretend to like him. They would come, do what they could to get him to learn his family tree, or proper French grammar, or whatever other tedium they had planned for that day, then they would leave. These tutors were much harder to get rid of, but Francis had plenty of practice.

And that's where the puppy came in. His current tutor was an uptight woman in her late 40's who absolutely hated disorder and filth. Finding a stray in her purse, no matter how small, clean, or cute, would drive her insane. Chuckling at the thought of her reaction, Francis snuck the puppy to his room, plotting all the way.

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**Author's note:**

**Hello everyone! Welcome to my very first attempt at writing things! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I have loose plot-like things floating around in my head, so I can't really tell you a length (probably not too long, though - 3, 4 chapters is my current vague idea) or a solid anything really right now, but I do plan on trying to get some adorable FrUK in there eventually ~**

**Thank you all for reading! I would very much appreciate comments, suggestions, and improvements! Have a lovely day/night!**


	2. Birthdays

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

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Francis carried the puppy up to his room and carelessly piled up some of his rather expensive clothing in a corner of his closet to serve as a bed for the stray. Just as he was about to go wash the pup, he heard a quiet, polite knock at the door. Francis quickly shut the closet and silently prayed the dog would stay quiet.

"Come in," he called imperiously.

His newest manservant, Francis could never remember his name, cracked open the door. He was an incredibly unobtrusive sort of boy with slightly wavy blonde hair, pretty purple eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses, and a timid demeanor. He crept into the room and bowed.

"Jeune maître Bonnefe, you need to get ready for the celebrations."

He had almost forgotten – today was his 13th birthday. He walked over to the closet and picked out an outfit, being careful to keep the puppy hidden. Francis always picked out his own outfits; after all, he couldn't expect his servants to properly keep up with court fashion. Handing the clothes to the boy, he spread his arms and waited to be dressed.

This party was going to be a relatively small affair, mostly just noble children of about his rank and age. The big birthday celebrations were at 11, when a child is first presented to the court, and 16, when they could finally be married off and gotten rid of.

-o-o-o-

Francis awaited his 11th birthday with great anticipation. While he may have been disenchanted with the servants, he still upheld his fellow noblemen and women as beacons of intelligence and virtue, and he was so excited to get to know some kids of his age. Even better, his parents were coming home!

The morning of his birthday, he was practically bouncing up and down with excitement, causing much difficulty to the poor maid who was trying to get him dressed. He ran down to breakfast, eager to see his maman and papa, only to be told that they had not yet arrived.

It had been a while since they last visited, and he couldn't remember much about them, just two small snapshots: lovely, curly blonde hair settled on the folds of his mother's stylish scarves and the constantly stubbly chin of his father towering high over him. Using these two memories, he had built himself a complete image of his parents.

In his mind, his mother is stunningly beautiful, but fragile, like a fairytale princess. She has such a tender smile that makes you feel all warm and fluffy, like when you're wrapped up in a comforter in winter drinking hot coco. She is always happy and energetic, and spreads her joy to those around her. If she had been home with him, she would have personally baked him cookies, even though they had a cook, and would have tucked him in to bed every night and sung him lullabies in her sweet, melodic voice until he fell asleep.

His father is a tall, proud, handsome man. He may be incredibly imposing and stern when working with others, but he has a loud, booming laugh and a wide smile he reserves just for his family. He loves maman and Francis more than anything else, and is deeply saddened by the fact that his work keeps him away so much. If he was ever home, he'd teach Francis how to play football and would share funny stories of how he courted maman.

Francis couldn't wait to see his parents. After breakfast, he rushed straight to the front door to be there when they came in, ignoring the housemaid that tried to shoo him away. The heavy double door opened about twenty minutes later, the sound of rapid, hushed French preceding the entrance of the two people Francis had imagined for so long. Francis immediately flung himself to hug his maman. After a small pause of surprise, he felt a pair of gentle arms hug him back.

"Bonjour, Francis!" Her voice was as melodic as he had imagined. "You've grown so big, mon petit."

Francis was too taken in with listening to his mother and admiring her to notice the scowl on his father's face, and his obvious disapproval of this show of affection. After giving his mother a few kisses on the cheek in greeting, he stood, trying to look as grown-up as possible, and stuck out a hand, hoping his papa would shake it. His father, imitating Francis's formal attitude, took the boy's much smaller hand in his and gave it a short shake.

"Hello, son."

He didn't have much to say, but that's ok, because Francis knew that it was because he was a man of few, but very important, words. In those two words, Francis fancied he could hear all of his father's pride and joy at seeing his son all grown up.

"He's grown to look just like you," his father muttered to his mother. He sounded almost displeased with that fact.

His mother quietly snapped back, "I'm glad. You can barely tell he's yours." Then she turned to Francis with a smile, her voice sweet and even again.

"Would you mind showing us our rooms, chéri?"

Francis jumped happily to the task.

"Bien sûr, maman, right this way!"

He led them down the corridor and up the stairs.

"It's super close to mine so you can come see me real easy!" Francis was doing a rather poor job of trying to restrain his excitement, although he really was trying.

"Very easily," his father corrected sternly. "We pay for all these tutors, yet he still cannot speak properly? Such a waste."

Francis felt deeply embarrassed. He had made a mistake in front of his father! He made a mental note to be very, very careful with his grammar from now on, and maybe even pay some attention to the lessons the tutor tried to teach him. Hiding his shame, he guided his parents to the nicest double room in the house.

"We're together?" His mother sounded surprised.

"Oui," Francis paused. Was it unusual for a married couple to stay together at home? He hesitantly asked, "Is that not good?"

"Oh, no, of course not." His mother laughed, a touch of nervousness distorting the sound. "I had just ho- expected we would have separate rooms. But this is lovely, Francis."

She gave him a kiss on the forehead, then the servants chased him out of the room and he didn't get to see his parents again until the party.

The party was grand. Beautiful people dressed in outfits dripping with style and money completely filled the usually empty and cavernous ballroom. Everyone, even down to the children, was standing in clumps, the rigid circles of wealth, family name, and political advantage fixing the groups and setting very strict, unspoken rules as to who could interact with whom. Francis nervously stood right outside the entrance with his parents and waited to be announced.

"Don't fidget," scolded his father.

"You will be great, Francis dear" added his mother comfortingly. "Just remember the names your tutor taught you, and how to address different people, and you will do perfectly fine."

Francis was now very worried. He never paid attention to those lessons, they were the most boring of all, and he couldn't stand them. Hopefully he could somehow figure it out. Maybe the other kids would help him out. He heard the doors creaking open, and he did his best to look confident and composed as his name was called across the now silent ballroom. There was some applause, and then people gradually returned to their conversations, with a couple of people breaking off their clumps to greet Francis and his parents.

Most of the introductions were a blur. Mostly what he remembered of them was walking by groups of people who would stare at him and his parents then murmur quietly to each other.

"...left alone… live separate… never come home… "_work"_, my ass… poor child… pity really, such a good family name… poor boy"

He really could not understand why all these people were pitying him. For what? Did they consider this introduction to the court all that stressful and difficult? He decided to ignore the conversations since he didn't get them. The entire time, his mother was trying to hide a blush and his father stood even straighter than usual, his back stiff and his face emotionless.

Only one introduction stood out to him that night, but that one introduction was enough to make him forget everything else. Amelia, a young noblewoman a year younger than him, absolutely enchanted him. Francis could still remember every detail: she had wavy amber hair pinned back with a cute pair of star barrettes, enchanting blue eyes, and a glittering red and white dress. He talked to her for a very long time, and even managed to muster up the courage to ask her to dance with him. He really thought she was interested in him, as she had hung out with him all night and happily agreed to dance with him. As the party went on, he grew to like her even more as he discovered her confident attitude and seemingly endless energy. By the end of the night he had convinced himself that she was absolutely the one for him.

When it came time for her to leave, he snuck out to the garden and picked a small bouquet of tulips for her. He gave her the bouquet and confessed that he really liked her, so much so that he wanted to be her fiancée. Amelia looked very serious and shook her head.

"I'm sorry Francis, I do like you very much, but I fear I have taken a vow of eternal chastity, and can therefore never get married." A group of girls close enough to hear this line broke out into whispers and muffled giggles, but Francis was too upset to notice.

He stumbled over some apologies and quickly bid her goodbye. His chance to ever be with his first love had been crushed, but in fact he idolized Amelia even more for her firm devotion to God and her decision to take such a difficult path in life.

The rest of the party seemed to pass by in shades of grey, as if the red and white of Amelia's dress and the blue of her eyes were the only thing giving color to the world. Francis escaped early and rolled up on his bed to mourn the loss of his one true love.

A while later, his parents came up, arguing. He could not figure out about what, but his father's shouts sounded like cruel, angry accusations, and weariness and frustration filled his mother's keening replies.

-o-o-o-

The serving boy had finished dressing Francis and had slipped unnoticed out of the room. Francis went over to his mirror to admire his appearance. Maybe this birthday would be better. Two years ago, his parents had left early the morning after his party on separate coaches, and he hadn't seen them since. A few weeks afterwards, he had received an invitation to Amelia's engagement party to some nobleman, which he had chosen to politely decline. Still lost in reminiscing, he wandered out of his room and headed to the drawing room to receive his guests.

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**I know no French, so if Google translate has failed me and the French sounds wrong somehow, please correct me on it.**

**I promise I'll try and stay in the present (mostly) for the rest of the fic, and I swear Iggy'll come in soon!**

**Thank you everyone for reading! I hope you have a chance to eat many delicious things today! **


	3. Friends

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

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After his eleventh birthday, Francis was frequently invited to small parties, and with each one he grew to dislike his fellow nobility more and more. He dreamed of extracting himself from the company of his peers, of mocking them and hating them like he did the governesses, but he could not afford to do that. He needed to keep the appearance of friendship, stick to the careful dance of formality so he could maintain ties with these possible future allies. So he decided that rather than hate, he would love. He would make them all love him, truly love him, not just for show. His silent revenge would be viewing with utter contempt those who adored him.

Leaving memories of the past behind, he walked into the drawing room and took a seat, quickly checking over his hair and clothes before his guests arrived.

-o-o-o-

Francis carefully balanced the four glasses he was carrying as he walked back to the table. The girls he had left behind were clearly gossiping about him, but Francis did not mind – it was nothing more than a mark of their obsession. Hiding his contempt for these blushing airheads behind a handsome smile, he approached the table.

"Your drinks, ladies." He skillfully placed the glasses in front of the three giggly young noblewomen seated around his table with a small bow. He knew one of the traits that set him apart from the other boys (besides the fact he was devastatingly handsome, of course) was the aura of maturity he carefully maintained. While he may be a thirteen year old, Francis could easily exude the air of an experienced host when need be, and the girls fell for it every time.

Francis thought it was really quite impressive that the three young ladies could sit so unruffled, so outwardly friendly, while in reality they were seething with jealously and loathing. They had just started discussing Anya, a pretty, if somewhat unsettling, young woman who had left the gathering a bit early. Now that Francis had come back to listen, the girls had begun mercilessly tearing at her looks, her clothing, and her actions, hoping to eliminate a possible rival for Francis' affection.

"…and her family! I hear her parents are off in Russia or something and she lives alone with this strange older man. I don't even think he's related to her!" The girl left the implications unstated, but she did give Francis a pointed look. "I bet that's why she's so comfortable with the boys. Did you hear? She asked one of them to marry her, just a few days ago! Can you imagine?"

"Yeah, I was there," another fancy airhead chimed in. "When he said no, she looked ready to murder someone! It was terrifying!" She used the supposed fear from her memory as an excuse to lean closer to Francis, with a slight smirk directed at the other girls.

"Surely it could not have been that bad. Anya seemed like a perfectly nice girl when I talked to her today," Francis interjected. He actually agreed Anya was creepy as hell, but he knew that if he was nice, it would fuel their jealousy, moreover it would make them think that he would defend them against malicious gossip as well.

"Oh Francis, you're too sweet," cooed the girl leaning against him, accompanying her words with a small eyelash flutter. "You always think the best of people. As your friend, I have to warn you, be careful with her. I bet if any guy does agree to get with her, he'll be dead within a month, probably leaving her with all the money." All the girls nodded in knowledgeable agreement.

Francis feigned concern and nodded with them. Satisfied that they had eliminated Anya as a rival, the girls moved on to other equally frivolous conversations.

Francis understood the girls easily, with their transparent schemes and cruel gossip. The boys, though, he had initially found harder to deal with. Sure, there were a couple that were just as in love with him as the girls, and for the same reasons, but the rest were more of a problem. With boys, it was much easier to tell what they thought of you, and much harder to change it.

His personality in front of the boys was much different. He presented a cheerful and open front. He played all the silly games they enjoyed, and was careful to be just good enough to always be picked for a team, but never quite good enough to be the star. Being the absolute best made others resent you, after all. He would let the less socially adept gloat publicly, exposed to the jealousy and hatred of the rest, while he crowed in his own personal triumph in the much more important game of court politics.

The party carried on, coating everyone in a sludge of fake compliments and quiet cruelties. When the last of the guests finally left in a flurry of goodbyes and promises to return, Francis went up to his room, too exhausted to even write poetry, as he usually did after court events. He opened his wardrobe to change out of his court clothes, and was startled by a small, white, furry bundle that jumped out and started circling around his legs, tail wagging happily. He had forgotten about the stray. He leaned over to pick it up, and it happily licked his hand, tail still wagging madly, almost as it it was trying to fly off. Francis lifted up the little wisp of a puppy and examined it critically. It had not gotten any cleaner, and there was a suspicious scrap of colored silk caught in its tail fur. He decided it was about time he wash the dog. Dumping the shredded pile of cloth that had formed at the bottom of the closet (it had been one of his nicer coats a few hours ago) in the trash can, he carried the puppy to the bathroom, planning on filling the bath for it.

Upon entering the bathroom, however, Francis realized he had never actually prepared his own bath before. The variety of knobs were a complete mystery to him, and he seemed to remember that there was some sort of metal thing his servant would always stick in for a bit, but he had no clue what it was and why it was necessary. That was alright, though. He was Francis Bonnefoy, sole heir to the Bonnefoy fortune and current master of this mansion, and he would _not _be defeated by a mere bathtub. The boy started playing with the knobs to figure out what they all do.

-o-o-o-

Matthew had been sent to check if the young master needed anything. He pitied Francis. The poor boy was no more than two years older than him, but he never acted like a child. Every time Mattie had seen him, he was either frowning over poetry in his room or smiling his lovely but utterly fake smile at a party. When Matthew had first heard his new master was going to be about his age, he had sort of hoped they could be friends, but the young master barely even noticed he was there. Then again, even the other servants sort of ignored him, so it wasn't really the master's fault. Thinking about how he could get the cook to actually notice him at lunch later, he didn't notice the puddle spreading out of Francis' bathroom until he splashed right through it.

_What…? Did a pipe break?_

Matthew opened the door to the bathroom to an astonishing sight. The young master was standing in the bathroom, extremely disheveled and completely soaked, struggling to figure out how to unplug the bathtub drain and turn off all the water knobs as a wet puppy splashed around him gleefully. Matthew paused for a second at the door, dumbfounded. Was he dreaming?

Francis turned around, looking very embarrassed for a moment, like a young boy caught mid-prank, before composing himself. He straightened up and tried to look like everything was perfectly normal.

"I do believe I asked you to knock before entering any of my rooms." Francis did his best to keep a calm, slightly derisive tone.

Recovering from his shock, Matthew bowed slightly and responded, "Excusez-moi, I thought a pipe might have broken." He was trying very hard not to laugh. Francis really looked quite ridiculous dripping wet in his court clothes, trying to look adult-like and authoritative. "Would you like some help with your bath, monsieur?" He dared not ask about the puppy.

"You may assist me in shutting off this water and heating it." He glanced at the puppy, then back at his servant. "And you saw none of this. If anyone asks, a pipe _did_ break, but you fixed it."

"Of course, monsieur." Suppressing another bought of laughter, Matthew quickly turned off the water and started mopping up the water from the floor. Francis had picked up the puppy, dropped it in the tub, and started uncertainly petting it, clearly clueless as to what he was supposed to do in order to get it clean.

"Would you like some shampoo for the dog, monsieur?" Matthew offered.

Francis nodded his assent, once again trying to act as if that had been his idea somehow. He took the shampoo Matthew offered, squeezed out far too much, and started rubbing it into the puppy's fur. Matthew quietly joined him, subtly guiding the older boy as to how to hold the puppy so it does not squirm, how to get all the shampoo out, and how to dry it off without letting it slip away and jump back into the water.

"Have you named it yet, monsieur?" Mattie inquired.

"Non. I had not thought about it." Francis dried himself off as his servant held the now clean, dry, and fluffy puppy. He slipped on a dry shirt, took the animal back, and absentmindedly started petting it. Washing it with the boy – what was his name? – had been unexpectedly fun, and he was in quite a good mood. He authoritatively turned to the servant.

"What is your name?" Francis demanded.

"Matthew Williams, monsieur." Matthew smiled slightly. The young master had never asked about his name before.

"Thank you for your help, Matthew. You may call me Francis." While the tone was sill rather stuck up, it was clear Francis really was thankful for Matthew's assistance. He had never bothered to learn any other servants' names before, and he had _never_ considered giving any of them permission to call him by name.

"Matthew, you, ah..." Francis' mask slipped for a moment to reveal his worry, "you won't tell the tutor about the puppy, right?"

"Of course not, mons- ah," Matthew smiled, "Francis." He bowed and left the room. The master had finally talked to him! This was really going to be a nice day. Plus, now he could play with the puppy whenever he wanted. Matthew's walk had more of a bounce than usual for the rest of the day, and he just smiled quietly when he heard the other servants exclaiming about the uncharacteristically happy mood of the young master.

* * *

**A little happy interlude for Francis ~ Enjoy it while it lasts... it won't last long, sadly. I was actually planning on introducing Iggy in this chapter, but then I got carried away by the cuteness of the puppy. I promise he'll come in next chapter! An I'l try not to take so long with it as I did with this one!**

**Thank you all for reading! I hope your day is sunny and pleasantly warm with a nice breeze and absolutely perfect for tree climbing. **


	4. Liars and Runaways

** Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

* * *

That night, as he lay in bed curled around the puppy, Francis gradually decided he would give the servant boy – Matthew, his name was Matthew – a chance. He was not one of the court boys, and he seemed quite honest and straightforward. He _had _helped a lot earlier and promised he would not tell. And, well, maybe it had been _a bit_ fun taking care of the puppy together. Francis slowly drifted off, his plans to meet with Matthew again tomorrow melting into dreams of happy frolicking in the garden together.

_I wonder if Matthew will like the name Felicia for the dog…_

-o-o-o-

Francis woke up to a high-pitched shriek, followed closely by the sound of his door being violently thrown open.

"_What_ is this _disgusting_ vermin, Master Francis?"

Revulsion pervaded the voice of his tutor. The shrill cry pierced through Francis' head, momentarily stunning him. He first became aware of the fact that the light, warm weight of his puppy was no longer present on him stomach. Gradually focusing on the shape in his doorway, Francis noticed the small shape of a very uncomfortable puppy whining pitifully an arm's length away from his enraged tutor. He immediately jumped up.

"Put her down!" He shouted, without thinking. "She's mine!"

"I have told you I will not tolerate any filthy, feral creatures in this house! You will be-"

"She's not filthy or feral! Felicia is my pet, and she's very sweet and clean!"

Francis stomped towards his tutor. Some part of his mind suggested that maybe this is not the best way to handle the situation, but it was drowned out by the wild, desperate, childish need to protect his new companion. They were going to have so much fun. How had the tutor found out? He'd think about it later – now, he just needed to get Felicia back.

"_Felicia?" _His tutor sputtered. "You _named _this diseased lump of fur?"

She turned on her heel, still holding the poor squirming puppy by two fingers, and marched out of Francis' room, heading outside. Francis ran after her, still crying out commands to stop moving and release the puppy at once. Where was she going? Was she going to throw out Felicia? She couldn't! He needed her! He and Mattie and Felicia were going to play and have fun, she couldn't take the puppy away now! The tutor stopped.

"If you throw her out I will never come to lessons again, you horrible woman!" Francis was getting very close to tears, but his tutor, far from being swayed by his threat, looked even angrier.

"This piece of filth has made you lose your composure and your interest in your future, Master Francis, and I will not tolerate this behavior any longer."

"And if you throw her out I'll run away and find her, and never come back again!" Francis was shouting at the top of his lungs, far beyond the point of considering reasoned debate.

"From what I have heard of your past escapades, I am sure you would do so, Master Francis," the tutor said with distaste. She did so dislike these brief interludes when Francis acted his age. Really, this would not do.

The tutor turned back and began walking towards the house. Francis was taken aback. Was she going to return the puppy? She stopped in front of a pile of gardening materials, picked up a sack, and dropped the dog in.

"What are you doing?" Francis yelped. No, she _was _going to throw the puppy out. He had to stop her!

"This is for your good. You will come to be grateful, I assure you." She called over a servant.

"Yes ma'am?"

It was Matthew. Oh thank God, Matthew would help! Francis turned to his servant with a pleading look, about to ask for his support, when he was cut off by his tutor's harsh command.

"Throw this in the river, boy."

Throw– What? In the river? She was going to _drown _Felicia? Francis would not let that happen, he couldn't, and Matthew, Matthew would stop it for sure! He wouldn't–

"Yes, ma'am." The boy carefully took the bag after a slight pause, then headed out of the grounds without looking at Francis.

Francis was frozen in place.

"You may have today off, young master, but I expect you in lessons tomorrow." The tutor turned and walked off, pleased she had gotten rid of the pest.

Francis did not hear her. What had just happened? His lovely puppy was gone. She was going to be killed. Drowned. Dead. He wanted to shout after the tutor, after that boy, but all that came out was a stifled whimper. Feeling unsteady, he sat on the grass. Tears rapidly dripped down his trembling chin, and his hands balled up to tear the blades of grass under him. How could they? How dare they? Felicia! Ha! He couldn't have chosen a more inappropriate name… And it had been his fault, if he hadn't brought her in, she'd be alive, wouldn't she? How _had _the tutor found out? Of course. That boy. That wretched, two-faced, lying, common scum had gone off and told the tutor. Of course. How else could it have happened? It all made sense now. That cur hated him, like all the others, he was just a much better actor. Really, it was all his own fault for being fooled so easily, taken in by a simple act of false charity. How could he have wanted to be friends with someone like that? That boy was out there now, killing his only friend. He had to compose himself. He had to get his puppy back.

Francis stood and ran desperately towards the gates at the far end of the garden, but before he reached them, he saw that servant boy coming back, empty-handed. The sack was gone; Felicia was gone. He had been too late. And that wretched servant boy had the nerve to come back here, to even head towards him with such a calm, composed look on his face!

"Francis, I–" Matthew began, but was cut off when Francis lunged at him, fists clenched.

He _dared _call him Francis? That cad had just drowned his Felicia, and expected Francis to take him back in as a friend? Oh, he would show him what he thought of that. He lunged again, trying to punch Matthew.

"Wait! No, Francis, listen to me! Your puppy's not-" Francis did not miss this time. Matthew turned an ran, realizing his attempts to talk to Francis were pointless. He would tell him what had happened later.

Francis chased after the boy for a bit, but lost him when he ducked into a hidden servant's entrance. He roamed around the grounds for a while longer, but still could not find the little traitor. He finally gave up. Maybe it was not true. Maybe Felicia had somehow escaped and would come back to him if he waited long enough. Francis sat down in front of the gates and stared outside, waiting, hoping she would come back. It got colder and darker, but he would not give up this easily. He kept himself awake with sadness for Felicia and hatred for Matthew. Late that night, still waiting under the harsh moon, Francis drifted to sleep. Though he never would have admitted it, he would have given anything, from his fortune to his soul, for a friend.

-o-o-o-

Francis was awakened by a set of hushed footsteps passing him by. He groggily blinked his eyes open to find a young boy with an unruly mop of short, dirty-blonde hair, who was failing miserably at subtly slipping by him.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Francis stood up, looking down on the shorter boy who was sneaking around on his property.

"I could ask the same! What sort of ninny sleeps outside? You're going to catch a cold if you stay too long out here, that's what my mum– I mean, that's just common sense!"

Francis was taken aback. Who was this rude brat who not only broke into his house, but then started lecturing him?

"I have every right to sleep wherever I please on _my property. _You, on the other hand, are a trespasser. Why are you here?"

"I'm running away from home." The boy said, very matter-of-factly. He stood there, dirty hands planted on his hips, looking up very confidently at Francis through a pair of unusually bushy eyebrows. "And I'm planning on staying here tonight."

Francis almost laughed. This little kid, probably a full head shorter than him looked absolutely ridiculous standing there looking so incredibly self-important in his patched trousers and oversized coat. Much like the puppy, his presence shouted defiance at the order and sterility of the garden.

"Very well then, if you're going to stay here, then you should at least introduce yourself."

"I am the great Captain Arthur Kirkland, terror of all of England and the waters around it!"

"Captain?" Francis could no longer contain his laughter. "Of what?"

"You bloody disrespectful git, stop laughing!" Arthur stomped on the ground angrily. "I may not have a ship yet, but I'm going get one and then you'll be real sorry you laughed at me. State your name so I can take my proper revenge when I get a crew!"

"Ah, of course, I do apologize. I am Francis Bonnefoy, at your service, _Captain_." Francis did his very best to stop laughing. Arthur thankfully missed the sarcasm in Francis' reply.

"Good. Now take me somewhere where I can sleep. I'm tired." Without waiting for the other boy, he started off towards the house with a strut. Francis quickly caught up. He decided it would be a bother getting rid of the kid tonight. Maybe he could let Arthur stay and send him off tomorrow morning.

* * *

**Hello all ~ **

**I drew a drawing for this fic! Francis is a bit younger looking than I planned, but that's alright. And hey, I finally got around to introducing Iggy! Sorry for the wait...**

**I hope you all have spectacular spring weather this week, whatever that might mean in your corner of the world.**


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